


Into the Life and Times of Arthur Kirkland

by Tandem_Constable



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2P England (Hetalia), Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bad Touch Trio, Blood, Depictions of alcoholism, False Identity, Human Names, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Minor Elements of Mystery, Multi, Punk Metal, Slow Build, Until it all comes crashing down, celebrity drama, polar bear - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23366284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tandem_Constable/pseuds/Tandem_Constable
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, the lead singer of Kirkland and the Bad Touch Trio, in a spur of desperation leaves his life behind and moves to America under a new alias. He soon finds himself as the center of controversy and in the middle of more drama than he had initially ran away from.
Relationships: 2P England/England, America/Japan (Hetalia), Canada/Ukraine (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bear with me.

He supposed he could afford to rent a flat on his own, but he didn’t see the merit in blowing through his savings. Who knew how long he would have to stretch his funds, or even how often he'd be able to access the money, for that matter. Also he figured it would be probably be wise to have someone know should he go missing, thus:

“Alfred, I presume?” He asked, the forced ‘posh’ in his accent straining his throat already.

“That’s right! I can’t believe someone responded to my ad so quickly!” Alfred, a blond, be-speckled man, who couldn’t be older than twenty, beamed up at him, baby blues sparkling. He steadied his breath, always having had a weakness for blue eyes. “Why don’t you sit down?” Alfred swung his arm in a sweeping gesture at the booth seat across the table from him.

“Yes yes, let’s conduct our interview.” He nodded curtly and slid into the seat. Alfred gave him a crooked grin.

“Hey man, no need to be so formal about it. This is just to see if we’d be compatible roommates, it’s not a job interview.” The man, boy, laughed. “Has anyone ever told you, you look just like Arthur Kirkland?” His blood froze, and the air caught in his throat. “Are you okay, man?”

“Yes,” He croaked. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m quite fine, thank you.” He wasn’t fine however. He, Arthur, was here, relocating to the United States, because nobody here was supposed to know who he was. He wasn’t very big in the States, or he so thought. “And no, I can’t say I’ve ever heard that before. Who is it I look like?”

“Arthur Kirkland! You look just like him... say, what’s your name?”

“Just like him?” His stomach twisted painfully. “My name is um, Henry Johnson.”

“Henry Johnson. Huh. You look more like an Arthur to me.”

“Alright! Who the bloody hell is this Arthur fellow?” He felt his face sink into a deep glower. He breathed in slowly and forced his facial muscles to relax; Arthur Kirkland was a man who was near constantly glowering, he, however, was a refined British gentleman. He did not glower.

“He’s in a band. Hold on, let me show you.” Alfred held up a finger and pulled out his phone. The tip of his tongue poked out as he scrolled through it.

“Hello, my name is Toris. May I get you anything today?” A plain voice inquired to his left. He whipped his head to the side to be met by the tired face of a teenage waiter. Ah yes, he was in a diner.

“Do you have Earl Grey?” He hated tea, but drinking it was part of the new persona he had written for himself on the plane ride over.

“I think so.”

“I’ll have my Us’ dude!” Alfred announced, sliding his phone across the table. “This is Arthur Kirkland; he went missing like two weeks ago. It’s been _all_ over _everywhere_. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him,” he proclaimed as the waiter scurried away.

He leaned forward, peered at the screen, and blanched. He, of course, recognized the image; it had been taken about two years previously in front of the Elizabeth Tower. ‘Kirkland’ sent the camera a smarmy smirk, his eyes glazed over and glassy- high. His hair had been died bright red at the time. His pants were leather and covered in chains, and he wore just a varsity jacket hanging wide open.

“So I look to you like the kind of guy who would tattoo the Union Jack on his pelvis?”

“Well,” Alfred’s eyes roamed over him, him and his grandpa sweater and choppy blond hair, “I guess not. You kinda look like you’d be a neat freak.

“Is there anything wrong with being organized?” He was anything but, but he still felt insulted.

“Of course not. My bro’s neat and stuff, but you should probably know before we agree to this that _I’m_ not!”

“Charming.” He gave a wry smile. Alfred returned with a goofy grin and leaned forward, ever so slightly.

“So if you don’t know who Kirkland is, what kind of music _do_ you listen to?” Alfred propped his chin on his palm, smiling at him lazily. “Is it reggae? Do you listen to it at three am? Do you listen to reggae at three am? Keep me up at night?” Alfred stared at him with intense, empty eyes.

“Do you have some history you need to unpack there?” Arthur- Henry chuckled tensely.

“No, sorry.” Alfred cleared his throat, cheeks bright red. “What’re you into, man?” He squeaked.

“Mozart.” He hated Mozart, the awful, boring drivel that it was.

“Exciting.”

“Are you mocking me?” He, Henry, Arthur, straightened his back and lifted his eyebrows condescendingly, to repress a glower.

“Nah, I ain’t mockin’ ya,” Alfred drawled, glancing over Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur turned around to see what he was staring at. It was their waiter, with the tallest plate of pancakes he had ever seen. “I love this place. They’re fast, and their servings are huge.”

“No shit.” Arthur’s eyes bulged. Their dishes were sat in front of them. He could barely see Alfred over the stack of pancakes, and even sitting down he could tell that Alfred wasn't exactly short. He was built like a linebacker, the all American boy.

“Would you like to order any food?” The waiter asked him. Arthur released a long sigh, his stomach bunched tightly with anxiety that he would never confess to.

“No, thank you, Love.” He waved a dismissive hand to the waiter, who turned a bright shade of red, nodded, and scampered away.

“Um... what was that?” Alfred blinked at him. Arthur raised an eyebrow, a thick bushy eyebrow.

“What was what?” Arthur asked, gingerly raising his teacup to his lips.

“Are you gay?” Tea sprayed across the table.

“Wha-why would you ask me that?” Arthur sputtered, wadding napkins in his hands.

“I’m pretty sure you just flirted with the waiter.”

“I didn’t.” Arthur thought for a moment. “If I did, would that be a problem?”

“Well, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if he’s eighteen man.”

“Oh, and that's your only concern?” He felt his stiffened shoulders relax. "I wasn't flirting by the way."

“Of course it is man! I wouldn’t judge you for being gay! It’s 2020! My brother’s gay!”

“No I’m not. I have a girlfriend,” whispered a voice from Alfred’s left. Arthur yelped.

“Did you hear that?”

“Oh man! I forgot. This is my brother, Matthew.” Alfred gestured to the wall beside him. Arthur squinted at the empty air, and gasped. There was a man there.

“Hi.” The man waved. “I’m Matthew... Alfred’s brother.”

“H-hello Matthew, I’m terribly sorry I didn’t notice you.” Arthur pulled at the collar of his sweater, heat flooding through his body.

“Don’t worry about it.” Matthew smiled warmly, lilac eyes sparkling. He looked remarkably like Alfred, if not for those eyes, and the gentle wave of his hair. How strange, Arthur thought, that he was so drastically less noticeable than his brother. “You know who _is_ gay though? Arthur Kirkland.” Matthew nodded sagely at his own words and gently slid a pancake off his brother’s plate.

“Isn’t that a little rude,” Arthur coughed into his hand, his throat tight, “to just say, that is?”

“I don’t see why.” Matthew bit into the pancake, the dough disk flopping in his fingers. “He wrote a coming out song.” Matthew grabbed the pitcher of maple syrup that had come with Alfred’s pancakes and proceeded to drink from it.

“Oh yeah! Oh what was that one called?” Alfred punched the table at his exclamation. “‘My Unicorn’s name is Fuck me’! That’s the one!” He snapped his fingers and pointed in ‘Henry’s’ face. Contact-lens-brown eyes blinked back at him.

“Are you certain that was the title of it?” He wheezed, teacup clattering in hand. That song had most certainly _NOT_ been a coming out song. He would know; he had written it. He forced himself to take a long, deep breath, refraining his tongue from firing corrections and accusations.

“Yeah man. Their song titles are kinda weird, but that was definitely the one!” Alfred nodded, picking an entire pancake up with his fork and cramming the entire thing in his mouth.

“How um, how do you say, promiscuous would you say you are?” Matthew piped in, boredly changing the topic, his voice nearly fading into the background, or into the syrup beaker at his lips.

“How is that information in any way prevalent?” Arthur carefully placed his tea on the table and lowered his hands beneath the table so he could sit on them.

“Well, _Henry_ , I want to know if I need to invest in earplugs.” Matthew shrugged nonchalantly. Alfred burst with laughter, stray pancake flying from his mouth, into Arthur’s tea. Delightful, he wasn’t going to touch that. He delicately slid the cup away from himself.

“You don’t, and my proclivities are of nobody’s concern!”

“Sorry,” a gentle voice murmured, and its owner faded away.

“Do you smoke?” Alfred shoved another pancake in his mouth. There were two more- one more left on his plate, the second having mysteriously vanished.

“Never.” There was no way in Hell he would have ever risked damaging his lungs, his throat, his livelihood.

“Do you have any animals?”

“I used to have a rabbit. I had to leave him in London however.” He hoped Francis was taking good care of the creature. He might have to fly back to commit a murder otherwise. He knew, after all, that he’d be capable of it. He bit down on his lip in agitated thought.

“So no pet currently?”

“Just my unicorn,” he mumbled absently.

“What?” Alfred stared at him incredulously, like one might stare at a madman. Arthur sighed.

“That was a joke.”

“Oh, okay man,” Alfred chuckled.

“Do you have any pets?” Arthur inquired, just as Alfred crammed another entire pancake in his mouth.

“Nahmn th’bldng sn’d ‘low nimls.”

“What?”

“Thboo-“

“Swallow!” Arthur pinched his nose, mentally counting through his funds. He could afford a flat on his own, but he didn’t want to draw from his savings with any sort of frequency, or at all if possible. And he really didn’t want to go missing without a trace, maybe in name, but certainly not in body.

“The building doesn’t allow animals.” Alfred glanced to his left, “So you can’t tell anyone about my bro’s pigmy polar bear.” There was a beat of silence, where Arthur digested the words he had just heard.

“Okay, you’re funny.” Arthur chuckled.

“Thanks! The bear’s name is- ah, bro, what’s your bear’s name?” Alfred conversed with the empty space beside him. Arthur blinked in confusion, contemplating whether he should just give in and get a job; no one could track him through funds given to a made up name. But then... there came the whole problem of identification.

“How do you not know?” Alfred whisper hissed.

“Er, who are you speaking to?”

“Huh? Oh, I dunno. Do you drink?” Alfred shrugged his shoulders, launching into his next question.

“Socially,” Arthur grimaced, knowing that word wasn’t entirely accurate, but he didn’t have a problem either. He had perfectly normal drinking habits.

“Well I like you, so if you don’t have any questions, I think we can start hammering out some living agreements.” Alfred beamed welcomingly at him, and a new plate of towering pancakes was placed in front of him. “Thanks dude.”

“I have two questions.” Arthur confessed. Alfred nodded to him to continue. “I feel silly asking; does your brother actually have a bear?”

“Not publicly, no. Secretly though, yeah, he has a bear.”

“Kumajiro.”

“Did you hear something?” Arthur looked around the room.

“What’s your other question man?” Alfred asked, right before he shoved two more pancakes in his mouth.

“Do you always eat like this?” Alfred turned bright red and put his hand over his mouth as he swallowed what was in his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Hm,” Arthur hummed, deciding he actually didn’t know this man well enough to comment. “Never mind. It’s your own business how you eat.”

“Um, thanks.” They stared at each other in awkward silence. The only sounds coming from their table was that of Alfred’s decidedly less enthusiastic chewing and the occasional slurp of a viscous liquid such as syrup, though Arthur was unable to peg its source. The silence melted through Arthur’s skin like acid- he was ruining things again; he always ruined things; the sudden guilt was enough to make him contemplate leaving the country, even though he’d just gotten there. Certain death would be preferable to this horrible feeling.

“Do you still want to go over agreements, eh?” An angel’s voice sang out from the veil of heaven. He knew not the name of his godsend, but he thanked God (though he stopped to think he wasn’t certain whether it was the god of Protestants or Catholics he thanked, not that he thought either was particularly far off from the other) for his soft spoken saviour.

“Oh yeah man! What’d’ya say? Wanna shack it up with us?” Alfred 180-ed, the sudden appearance of his teeth blinding the brown eyes across from him.

“Yes, I believe I do, actually. Shall we?” Arthur shakily returned the beam that burned his eyes, holding back the need to cover his face.

—————————————————————

It was 10:00 p.m. and Alfred F. Jones, astrophysics major extraordinaire, lay awake on top of his blue and white, star patterned comforter, staring blankly at the ceiling. He slowly crammed a Twinky in his mouth to raise his blood sugars. He thought about the foreigner he had just taken on as a roommate.

He mentally ran through a chore list he’d have to execute once he woke up the next day. Henry, the British man with an unfitting name, was supposed to arrive with his bags at three o’clock. With his brother’s help, he should have enough time to vacuum the main entryway/living area, scrub the bathroom, clean the pile of dishes from the sink, clear the breakfast counter of all his textbooks and term paper rough drafts, and re-dust the small room their third party would be claiming.

A whistle came from his phone. His hand automatically reached for it and held the device aloft his face. His bleary eyes took a moment to adjust to the brightness. It was just a Twitter notification from Arthur Kirkland. He lazily dropped his phone on his chest.

Maybe he should buy a plant to put in Henry’s room, as a housewarming gift. But he didn’t know if he had any allergies. Maybe he should get a fake plant. Would that be tacky?

It was a tweet from Arthur Kirkland.

Alfred scrambled for his phone, having forgotten it was on his chest. It dropped to the floor, and he clambered off his bed and snatched it up. He opened his phone and let his eyes hungrily devour the words on the screen.

-I have recently become aware of a few misconceptions surrounding one of my songs. Allow me to clear things up for everyone. MUNIFM is about psychedelic drugs.

The phone whistled again.

-'The Devils in My Closet' is my coming out song.

Alfred stared at his phone for three beats, reread the two blocks of text, and remembered to breathe. “MATTHEW!” He slammed his bedroom door open and tore down the hall. “MATTHEW! BRO! Open up!” He banged on his brother’s door. A low growl emanated from the other side, calming Alfred slightly; he didn’t want his epitaph to be ‘mauled by pigmy polar bear’.

“I was hibernating,” and agitated mumble reprimanded him once the door opened.

“Look at this!” Alfred shoved his phone in his brother’s face. Matthew batted his arm away and grabbed his wrist to angle the phone at a more comfortable angle to look at.

“This could have waited for morning, Al,” Matthew grumbled. “I have a test at seven tomorrow.”

“Matty, you have to trace it!”

“What?”

“Find out where he is! You’re a super hacker aren’t you? Track down where he posted this from!”

“No.”

“Why not?” He whined.

“Parce que!” Matthew rubbed at his temples, “unless he’s an idiot, he’ll have masked his I.P address with a VPN or something, and I’m not going to waste my time. I have a test in the morning!” The bedroom door slammed shut.

“Spoilsport.”

“Go to bed.” Alfred stuck his tongue out at the closed door. "Go to bed! I can hear you standing in the hall!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Fratellos: The Greatest Talkshow of All Time!

“Welcome! Ve~ I’m Feli and he’s Lovi!”

“And this is Fratellos.” A pair of twins with thick Italian accents sat beside each other on a bright red couch, eyes locked on a swiveling camera.

“We have a trio of very special guests on today! Let’s call them out! Ve~” The first twin, Feli, shifted his eyes from the camera, to the audience behind it, beaming so large that his eyes were squinted to slits.

“You all know who they are,” the other twin, a rougher voiced man, Lovi, addressed the audience, “Francis Bonnefoy, Antonio Carriedo, and Gilbert Beilshmit! Let’s hear it for the Bad Touch Trio!” Both twins gestured a sweeping arm to stage left; the audience screamed.

Three men emerged from backstage. The first was Francis, a long-blond-haired man with stubble and an exposed hairy chest. He straightened his bright red blazer and blew a kiss to the audience. Behind him was, Antonio, a Spanish man with olive eyes, dressed in red and white striped skinny jeans and a leather jacket. His eyes darted between the audience and the twins on the couch. Behind him walked the third man, a stocky albino cloaked in a deep blue robe, frayed edges sweeping the floor. He twirled a Prussian cross necklace with one hand and excitedly made obscene gestures with the other. This was Gilbert.

“It’s a pleasure to have you with us today! Please, have a seat!” Feli gestured to an empty yellow couch that sat beside the twins. Francis sat first, smoothing his navy pants with his hands as he lowered. Antonio droppedbeside him, resting folded hands on a blue sweatered stomach. Gilbert flopped himself down beside them, swung his arms over the back of the couch and threw a leg over the arm. He wore black army boots; Lovi raised his left eyebrow, a pleasure indeed.

“Why don’t you share a little about yourselves, for those in the audience who don’t know?” Feli simpered.

“We are the Bad Touch Trio.” Antonio gestured to his companions on either side of him.

“An intégral part to the band, Kirkland and The Bad Touch Trio.” Francis expanded.

“And where is Kirkland?” Lovi asked, his question hanging heavy in the air. 

“We have no idea! He just up and left! All he gave in way of notice was a fucking sticky note telling Francis to feed his fucking rabbit and a fucking video he uploaded to fucking YouTube! He didn’t even leave a fucking way to contact him!” Gilbert burst out. He glanced at the show’s hosts, one startled, the other agitated. “I can say fuck, right?”

“Well you already fucking did, didn’t you, ya bastard?”

“Lovi!”

“Relax. I’m joking with him.” Lovino waved off his brother’s concern. He shot Gilbert a warning glance; there wasn’t much humor in his eyes.

“I actually want to touch back on that video you mentioned a moment ago,” Feli redirected.

“Ja?” Gilbert scratched his chin.

“We have it queued up, and I was thinking we could play it for those in the audience who don’t quite know what we’re talking about.”

“Without further ado: ‘Bite Me’, by Arthur Kirkland.” Lovino gestured at a large screen behind them, and the room went dark.

The video opened with an unfocused camera in a dark, nondescript room, and soft discordant strumming on a guitar. The image focused on a nude form in the middle of the room, head bald and looking down, strumming a guitar that rested in his lap, offering a modicum of modesty. The man in the video was Arthur Kirkland, made apparent by the ship tattoo on his chest, in focus just clear enough to be identifiable.

A low hum rose out from his throat, his new melody not matching up with the strumming off the guitar. His fingers slowed and stopped, drumming once on the instrument’s base. Silence floated out as he breathed in deeply.

He opened his mouthed and breathed out a sorrow filled voice, “Does my sweat soaked face look enticing?” He fingers returned to strumming, the notes matching up with each other this time around. “Can’t you see what I’m sacrificing?” He chuckled lowly, shaking his head and took in an audibly shaking breath. “Why are you laughing while I’m dying? Make me think that I’m lying.”

His face shot up, fixing the camera with a haunting glare, his green eyes glowing and shining with moisture. “You can _BITE ME!_ ” He screamed in a throaty growl. “You can bite my ass! I want to see you choke, on the life that you broke,” his voice cracked, “so _BITE ME, bite me, bite me!_ ”

The strumming stopped, and he breathed heavily, his lungs heaving and his shoulders quivering. He dropped his bald head once more and thrummed his fingers against the wood of the guitar.

“So does my blood taste like that sugar, that you’ve always been chasing after? We’ll see now darling, you’ve bled me dry,” he sang in a gentle, yet accusatory tone. “When I’m gone do you think that you’ll cry?”

He stomped once with his bare foot, a growl rising from his throat. “You can _BITE ME!_ You can _BITE_ my ass! I want to see you fucking _CHOKE_ , on the life that you took! So _BITE ME! Bite me! Bite me!_ ” His fingers twitched to a stop and he lowered the neck of his instrument. A quiet sob tore through the air as he started to laugh.

He started to sing again in a much gentler voice, his words fading in an out. “You can bite me. You can bite my ass,” the words, despite their lack of volume, ripped their way out of his strained throat. “I want to see you choke. On the life that you broke. So bite me, bite me, bite me, bite me, bite me, bite...” his voice faded away in a mumbling rumble of whispered sound.

He sat in silence for five beats, a silence so deafening that one might hear blood pumping behind one’s own ears. One last wet chuckle escaped from his mouth and the video cut out. The lights in the studio clicked back on, and everyone stared at one another in uncomfortable quiet.

“He’s always had such a strong voice,” Francis broke the silence, smiling fondly at the black screen behind him. He shifted in his seat, something falling over his face. He glanced away, his nose scrunching tightly. Antonio wordlessly dropped a hand on his knee.

“Could you share with us what you first thought when you saw this video? What does it mean?” Feliciano prodded gently, crossing one pink-clad leg over the other.

“I hate myself for this being my first thought, but it was his hair. He always hated it, dying it some absurd colour: red, green, puce...” Francis lifted a delicate hand to hold the side of his face, “I thought, ‘ah, it was only a matter of time before he snapped and shaved it all off.’” He dropped his head sadly, and Antonio’s hand found its way to his back.

“I remember just being confused,” Antonio confessed, his voice heavy and sad. “We hadn’t known yet that he’d ran off, so I was just confused.”

“You know what’s funny?” Gilbert derided. “When we first started, he had commented that obviously he should be the lead because only _HE_ was truly passionate, only _HE_ would stick it out to the end!” Gilbert straightened, his boots thumping angrily on the hardwood floors. “That fucker!” He punched his own leg, a vein on the side of his temple throbbing with frustration.

“Gil, please, mi amigo,” Antonio murmured, holding out his other arm to beseech some form of calmness from his friend.

“If you’re watching, Arthur,” Gilbert sprang to his feet and sent his burning red gaze to the cameras, his teeth bared and sharp, “you better grovel when you come back!” Antonio grabbed the back of his robe and yanked him back down, offering an apologetic smile to everyone his gaze could reach.

“Any thoughts as to what any of it means?” Feliciano leaned closer to the trio, leaning into his brother’s space to peer at them curiously. Lovino stared at him in exhausted silence.

“He obviously just wanted a vacation.” Gilbert grumbled. “All that partying must’ve tired out _das arme Ding_.” Gilbert rolled his eyes and flopped back in irritation.

“Je ne sais pas,” Francis mumbled into his hands, tears streaming down his face. Antonio pulled him flush against his side and rubbed his hand up and down the blond’s arm, gold rings glinting from the movement.

“It’s time to cut to commercial,” Lovino hissed in his brother’s ear. Feliciano nodded once.

“We’re going to cut to commercial,” Feli beamed at the audience, “When we come back, we’re going to discuss a mysterious tweet, and the Trio’s plans going forward! Stay tuned, Ve~!”

—————————————————————

Arthur had two bags of belongings: a backpack full of essentials he had hurriedly grabbed on his way out the door and a duffle bag full of clothes he had bought after he’d arrived overseas. Needless to say, he was beyond thankful that the room came pre-furnished with a small bed and chest of drawers.

The two brothers had decided to order pizza to celebrate the new roommate arrangement, and they had all settled down in front of the TV. The screen had clicked on to the opening lines of the show Fratellos. Those two grated on Arthur’s nerves, and he had just been opening his mouth to very politely interject, when his blood froze over.

Francis, that godawful frog, waltzed onto the set, sparkling and beaming like always. His eyes latched onto the signs of misery and exhaustion that the man hid so well, however. His eyes widened, taking in the tautness of the Frenchman’s shoulders, the darkness of his usually well kept stubble, the bags under his eyes that were painted with concealer that failed to quite do its job. Arthur’s heart thumped.

Gilbert ripped his attention away, screaming and throwing a fit. He winced, imagining the spittle that must be flying onto Toni’s jacket. His eyes crinkled slightly as he shifted awkwardly on the couch. He felt a scrutinizing stare from his right, so he turned and was met by a pair of violet orbs.

“Are you okay?” Matthew whispered, his voice more curious than concerned. “ _Henry._ ” Arthur swallowed and opened his chapped lips to respond.

“Shh,” Alfred shushed them, the opening strums of a guitar melting out of the speakers. They both turned back to the screen, Matthew’s brows furrowing as he glanced between the man seated beside him and the one strumming the guitar. Arthur scratched the side of his face and winced. There was just something horrible about watching a recording of oneself, and this... was _horrible._

He looked like he had been going through some drug-addiction-induced existential crisis. His eyes, on the screen, were red-rimmed and heavy. His body was trembling like a leaf. His bald head, that was the nail on the coffin. He had put on a bald cap before filming, to throw off anyone looking for him, but he hadn’t realized how mad it made him look until just that moment.

Loud sobs broke his train of thought. Fat tears were rolling down Alfred’s cheeks and soaking into his shirt. Arthur suddenly felt trapped; he’d never known what to do with crying people (Francis used to tease him saying he was so cold, he needed someone to warm him up), and what with himself being the apparent cause of the tears...

“Al, are you okay?” Matthew grabbed his brother’s shoulder. Alfred shook his head, sending salty liquid flying.

“How am I supposed to be okay? Look! How can you watch that and _not_ feel something?” Alfred gestured violently at the screen.

“I don’t follow,” Arthur delicately lifted a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box and raised it to his lips, avoiding eye contact as he steeled his voice. He refused to accept pity, even by proxy of himself.

“Can’t you hear the agony in his voice?” Alfred gesticulated. “There are fucking _bruises_ on his arms!” Arthur choked on his pizza, eyes darting to the dark image that Alfred thrust his greasy finger at. He had thought the lighting had been too dim to tell, but if he squinted, he could see the bruising. Dull aches swelled through his formerly forgotten limbs.

“I don’t think you were supposed to notice that,” Arthur breathed. He remembered the night he had recorded the video, and he wished he had drank a bit less beforehand, thought through things a little more thoroughly. Why did he never think?

“What makes you say that, Henry?” Matthew asked. The two locked eyes, one with scrutinizing lilac irises, the other with wide brown ones.

“Just a feel-“

“Arthur!” Three sets of eyes jerked back to the screen, one trembling with terror. “You better _grovel_ when you come back!” That red hot glare cut him right to the core of his being. The show cut to commercial and he excused himself, offering to refill soda glasses for the two brothers.

The moment he entered the kitchen, his stomach churned and jumped. He darted for the sink, expelling the burning upheaval of his stomach. He rinsed the foul taste down the drain. He moaned and turned on the facet to rinse out his mouth and splash water on his face. Curse Francis and his melancholy face; he should have asked them to change the channel when he first thought it, if he tried now, it would be suspicious.

He poured two glasses of soda, his own stomach protesting at the thought, and wandered back into the room. Alfred had his head buried in his brother’s shoulder, the other rubbing circles on his brother’s back.

“He’s incredibly empathetic.” Matthew explained. Arthur nodded and sat down.

“I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this,” Alfred mumbled, pulling away from his brother. Arthur glanced at his tear stained face and frowned.

“There’s nothing wrong with a good cry, chap.” Alfred smiled shakily at him, and he returned the smile.

“Welcome back to Fratellos!” A chipper voice sang from the TV. Arthur held back a wince; Feliciano’s voice tended to grate on his nerves very quickly.

“As many of you may already know, last night Kirkland sent out a Tweet.” While he by no means liked the man, Arthur had decided long ago that Lovino was the more preferable of the Vargas brothers. He was far less... prying.

“Can you give us your thoughts?” Feliciano smiled, glancing at the big screen behind him, where the two tweets were displayed. Arthur bit his lip, already regretting his hasty decision to storm an Internet cafe the night before.

“Mon dieu! I’ve been so relieved! I slept for the first time in two weeks last night! He’s not dead!” Francis proclaimed, his smile large and wobbly. Arthur felt guilt spike his gut.

“Again,” Toni sighed, “I’m confused. He’s never cared to correct this kind of thing before.”

“He was always too far up in the clouds to notice.” Gilbert crossed his arms and looked away, bored. He was much more subdued now, his left cheek a bright red.

“Was he now?” Feliciano cooed.

“Please, let us not speak of him in past tense!” Francis cried out, long fingers tangled in blond locks, “He isn’t dead!”

“Honestly, I always thought the stupid unicorn song _was_ a coming out song.” Gilbert grumbled, fingers drumming on the side of his face.

“If you had listened when he first read it to us-“ Francis whipped around to face his red eyed companion.

“Don’t you start with me, Fran.” Gilbert growled.

“Gentlemen!” Lovino snapped. “Act civilly (I don’t need a lawsuit).”

“Mon lapin, s'il te plait reviens!” Francis cried to the camera. Arthur leaned forward on the couch, his breathing more labored than it had been previously. Francis's eyes were so big, full of tears and pain. Arthur felt as if someone was strangling his heart.

“It’s easy to get caught up in the emotions of it all, isn’t it?” Alfred sniffled.

“Oh er,” Arthur touched his cheek. It was wet. “Yes, it’s very easy,” he mumbled, wiping the moisture away with his sleeve.

“You seem awful torn up over this,” Feliciano’s voice floated out from the speakers. Arthur glared back up at the screen. The little shit had his bottom lip thrust forward like some sort of peace offering.

“Of _course_ I am,” Francis accepted Toni’s arm when it wrapped around him. “I know it’s not very _‘metal’_ of me, but I’ve never been good at hiding my vulnerabilities. I never had to eith-either b-because Arthur...” Francis slumped his shoulders. “I love him.” The words escaped him in a desperate breath, his shoulders trembling.

A strangled sound escaped from Arthur’s throat.

“This is LIVE,” Lovino loudly whispered to him, his eyes etched in concern. He was the brother with humanity, despite his rough exterior.

“Oh, but isn’t he engaged to a doctor?” Feliciano fluttered his lashes, presumably in what was meant to appear to be innocent curiosity. Arthur shuddered and crossed his arms.

“I do not care. I have always loved-” Francis shook his head and turned away from the hosts, watery eyes fixating on the screen, as if he could peer through the lens and find what he was looking for. Arthur stared back, feeling as if their eyes had met, as if they were both connected to he other. He felt his body pull closer to the screen. “Mon lapin, je t’aime avec mon tous cœur.”

“Oh, Francis. Tu mérites tellement plus que l'amer, pourri moi." Another tear rolled down Arthur’s cheek, but he did nothing to stop it. "Je te mangerais entire."

“Dude, did you say something?” Alfred asked. Matthew blinked at him, confusion flashing behind his eyes.

“Pourquoi?” Matthew leaned closer to him. “Pourquoi as-tu dis cela?” He whispered in his ear.

“Why are you speaking French?” Arthur raised a thick brow.

“ _You_ were, _Henry_.” Matthew raised a much thinner brow back at him.

“I would _never_ do such a thing! I _hate_ the French. In fact, that accusation offends me so much, I’m going to bed.” Arthur pushed himself up, brushed off his pants, and sauntered out of the room. Perhaps it wasn’t the friendliest of exits, but he couldn’t handle another second of that show. The idea to call Francis, let him know he was alright, flashed through his head, but he had thrown out his phone so he shook the ill-conceived thought away.

Besides, there was a reason they weren't together, and he couldn't let himself feel regret just because his prior engagement hadn't worked out. He was toxic, and he would _not_ regret cutting the ones he loved out of his life. It was for their own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments below. Constructive criticism is always welcome! Keep it civil! ;]


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